


Moonlight Seranade

by xtricks



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtricks/pseuds/xtricks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Frost visits the grave of an old enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight Seranade

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very old fanfic of mine, from 2004. I've re-spellchecked and made sure the formatting is correct but left all my old idiosyncrasies intact.

There had been years when this was everything she wanted. Emma's heels ticked softly on the floor, shadow and moonlight sliding across her skin in turn as she walked the halls of Xavier's mansion. Some years it had been revenge she'd craved; revenge on DaCosta's son, revenge for being thwarted - year after year by the sanctimonious X-men - fury at Xavier's teachings that left his student's so vulnerable to treachery from humans. In the later years, when everyone was older, if not wiser, Emma craved the mansion for a different reason entirely.

Now she had all she craved. The mansion, a position of leadership, the responsibility of shaping the next generation of mutant children - and Scott.

Her late night wanderings had taken her to the Headmaster's office and she poured herself a glass of whiskey.

"And still, I rate below a corpse," she tipped her glass to the monolithic, stylized bird statue looming beyond the window, stark in the moonlight and stone cold dead. Like Jean.

Not that she believed that would last forever. Returning from the dead _was_ Jean's talent, after all. Someday, somehow, Emma expected Jean would show up again. She was certainly aware that Scott believed that too. Emma swallowed down the whiskey, closing her eyes at the satisfying burn then poured another glass.

She wasn't going to start simpering about the price of her dreams now and took another swallow instead. Pushing aside the curtain Emma stared out at the dark shadows and moonlit stone. Scott had chosen it, the odd apricot alabaster and the abstract design both. She wondered if Jean would have liked it and guessed not. Jean, for all her prudish, ill-tempered arrogance hadn't been much for big honking statues in her honor. What the Phoenix believed ... Emma really didn't give a damn.

Emma found herself outside a little while later, circling the statue while the night air slipped past the translucent barrier of her nightgown. The silk clung to her hips and to cold nipples, slipped apart to bare her thighs and that was just the way she wanted it. Emma bought her lingerie with an eye to who was going to be looking at it, not for warmth.

The glass was cold on her mouth and, when she put her hand to the stone statue, it was colder still. She saluted it then, on impulse, poured a splash of whiskey at the base. Remy LeBeau, superstitious Cajun that he was, would be proud of her. Perhaps a tip of whiskey now and then would keep Jean away for another day, another month, another moment.

"Give me a _chance_ , damn you," she whispered to the soaring beak. It cut into the diamond bright moon, a sharp, red edged shadow. Just like the shadow Jean still cast over Emma's life. She had everything she longed for and nothing. Nothing.

Emma hopped up on the base of the statue and sat, cold stone biting through the pale silk of her inadequate clothes. The expansive, and expensively repaired lawn, was empty - or at least Logan was staying out of her sight. The mansion was silent behind her, all the kiddies dreaming of better days and Scott dreaming of Jean. She didn't even have to dip into his mind to know that. It had been true since before Jean had died and … Emma _wasn't_ going to bitch about lying in the bed she'd made for herself.

She was a substitute and she'd known it at the first kiss. At least Scott was old enough now not to try and lie to her about it and Emma supposed she had to be satisfied with that. Or do without and she wasn't used to not getting what she wanted. Except that she'd never bargained for being a crutch and she leaned back against the cold stone, cursing Jean's name and her yenta-arrogance for 'giving' Scott into Emma's care like he was a crippled boy.

Which, Emma had to admit as she studied the dregs of her drink, he was. It was like he'd lost a limb - or something more significant. The ache of Jean's absence was always, _always_ there in his mind. For a telepath it was maddening and nothing she did soothed that ache. Because she wasn't Jean.

And there, of course, lay temptation. She was a telepath of no little power and she knew what Scott missed and longed for as no one else did. It would be easy, almost, to give him what he so desperately wanted. What he clearly needed.

It would be easy to give him Jean.

Frighteningly easy, with everyone in the mansion holding their breath and waiting for Jean's fiery return. It would not be so hard to draw Jean's image and Jean's voice and Jean's walk over her own. It would not be difficult to find and fill all the spaces where Jean once had been. They were not so different after all.

Both telepaths. Emma let her mind rove over the dreams within the house behind her. Logan was asleep, amazingly enough and for once, free of nightmares. Emma tip-toed past his mind, wary of stirring him from his rare moment of peace.

Both powerful. In their battles, sometimes Jean had been the victor and sometimes Emma. As they'd aged, they'd reached an impasse and it was only situational advantages that kept them from stalemate. Emma liked to believe that they had even come to a sort of understanding in the years as opponents and uneasy allies.

Both women. Emma wound a lock of her moon-silvered hair around a finger. Jean had been undeniably beautiful, in the particular way of women who didn't care about their own beauty. Emma traced the shape of her own mouth with a fingertip; Jean's mouth had been a warmer shape - a little irregular dip at the left. Emma could practically feel it. The fuller shape, see the deeper red. She swept her tongue over her finger.

Jean had been slender where Emma was fuller; a lifetime of training as an X-man betrayed by sleek muscle if you looked for it. Emma ran her damp finger down the length of her throat, feeling a pulse stronger and deeper than her own. Her nipples prickled, swelling from more than cold now.

She rolled the cold glass over her breast, gasping and arching her back at the teasing chill. Cradling herself, she pressed a palm over her nipple, rubbing in small circles and breathing deep at the prickling warmth. Jean's breasts were smaller, a petal soft handful with skin like cream and nipples like rosebuds waiting for a touch to wake them to pleasure.

Heat gathered and spread down to swell between Emma's legs and she slipped off the cold stone only to lean against it, spreading her legs to the night air and the phantom touches that seemed so very real. A breeze that should have been chilling but instead seemed hot, like breath, stole up her thigh. Emma tugged her robe open, ivory gold skin framed by ice white silk, the pollen gold triangle of pubic hair silvered by moonlight and pale pale breasts flushed and swollen with desire.

Hunger rippling through her, Emma closed her eyes and dipped two fingers into her mouth. She bit at them, imagining stronger hands, a longer body against her own, a hot damp mouth closing on her pulse. Hands shaping her breasts, kneading them, making he hips roll in feverish answer. Pulse leaping against teeth and full lips, Emma breathed Jean's name and inhaled the smell of her hair brushing her cheek. Cinnamon hair, fire hair, warm hands sliding over her waist, a warm tongue licking down her throat. Emma gathered that hair in her hands, stroked over satin skin and felt shifting muscles under her hands. She was hot now, in the cold moonlight, beneath the shadow of a dead bird. Hot and aching and wet.

Nipples between her fingers, hard, tight and swollen and she pinched them, gasping as pleasure flooded her senses. Cradled her breasts and offered them for touch and taste, drawing nipples out between her fingers, milking the pleasure that surged through her in sharp little aches. Her skin felt too small, sweat gleaming, tracing the echo of taste and touches. Emma scraped her fingernails down the long curve of hip and waist, a hot cry flooded the air. It was all heat now, heat and sweaty skin and the salty smell of desire. Open mouthed moans carried in the night, Emma's fingers chased shivers and gasps and tormenting maps as they slid down to circle the small dip of a navel. The skin under hands was so _hot_ , so eager. She could taste salt now, and shape the feel of swollen nipples in her mouth. She could feel the patter of nips and licks and kisses, each one a new spark of pleasure. Pleasure seeped wet and languid down her thigh and Emma reached down to slip her fingers across the silky fluid.

The taste of a woman's salt pleasure made Emma groan low and long. Her free hand dropped to press against the fine, wet hair between her legs. As she massaged the tender fullness of her labia, Emma felt the gathering ache within strengthen. Climax built in the hard ache of her nipples, the shift and sway of her breasts, in the flush of her skin and behind her closed eyes where red hair and fiery touches lingered in her mind's eye.

Emma parted wet flesh, fingers sliding slick in warm scented pubic hair, teasing the thinner inner lips as her hips jumped in desperate hunger for more touch. The hot, swollen nub of her neglected clit throbbed sharply in demand and her hips angled forward in demand for more. One hand pressed to her belly, feeling the shiver of muscles there, she glided a finger between the folds of her body, the anticipation of penetration making her pant. Forefinger angling within, as she pressed deep Emma also pushed her thumb against her clit and her body jumped in a spasm of fierce pleasure.

Fluid wet her palm as she rocked her hips, riding the finger within, thrusting against the tease of her own thumb. She shifted, pressing two fingers inside, sighing at the feel of pressure, the movement. She was so hot in there, so wet, the bud of her clit hard and swollen and throbbing in joy against her thumb. Emma circled herself, nerves thrumming with pleasure, hand running up and down her body, circling her breasts, stroking her nipples, dropping down to push against her own hand and to feel more pressure. Her hip rode the night, legs sprawled wide, body arched across the stone and kissed by the moon.

Eyes squeezed shut, Emma could feel the rippling heat on her skin, anticipation hurried her hands, thumb moving now in strong, urgent circles, fingers rocking in and out and in and out -

She was torn between holding off and rushing forward when her hips snapped forward, climax blooming in a red rush through her as her slick vagina clamped rhythmically against her hand. The pulsing release throbbed wildly in her ears, simmered over her skin and Emma wailed aloud, crushing her palm against her labia and clutching the moment, drawing it a series of long, ecstatic shudders.

Thighs shaking hard, Emma slumped against the stone, one hand braced against it with the other still buried between her legs. With a long sigh, hair tumbled across her flushed face, she drew free; feeling the immediate, lonely ache between her legs.

The wind was chilling now, when it had seemed so hot a moment ago as Emma blinked dazedly into the night. There was nothing out there, of course, and if her body hummed and stung with the memory of _presence_ , well that was only a fantasy.

She pulled her inadequate silk robe tight around herself, sticky hand leaving damp prints on the fabric. Emma knew that Jean would return someday but she doubted it would be to fulfill one of her private sexual fantasies. It was unlikely that it would be the heat of Jean's passion she would face when she returned.

Emma shook her hair back and walked, a tad unsteadily back indoors. It was time for a shower and possibly time to wake Scott from his dream fantasy and provide him a waking one instead. Behind her, the whiskey spilled in idle sacrifice gleamed gold and crimson in the white light of the moon.

END (100504)


End file.
